The East Village
I'm not acquainted with my Pauline.
I hardly know the dog in the yard for
the sound of the garnet in the brain.
The brains of heavy lifters
"Go heavy lids, to bed," the brains of heads,
all that'll lift in the fog, a song
of lungsorrow in the dinnerbell fog.
"Pauline, Pauline... Yes Jean-Paul, Paul, Paul?"
You and your lieu instead of you, that's all.
instead of you, that's all.
I wear my house with the fear of a marshall.
Each elevator door is a shirt of brains.
An army needs chambers for bathing its feet
so I build my first house out of war.
"I'm not acquainted with force," said the lace propeller
to the bowl of wind, and hastened to sink.
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